What directors Vincent Fichard and Matthew Jones have managed to do with this short film is answer that question with a resounding yes.
Shot on the streets of Dubai, this film seeps into the nooks and crannies of the city and brings to life not only people’s attitudes about living there, but it takes one of Dubai’s greatest headaches — traffic — and turns it into an endearing project.
Any local commuter or a hapless one from another emirate (Abu Dhabi) such as myself dreads getting lost on the highways of Dubai. One wrong turn and you find yourself behind an endless queue of liquid waste trucks waiting to unload. And given how long it takes to get back on track, you could spend up to an hour, bored out of your mind, picking the ones that say, “non toxic” from the “toxic” and wonder at the vast expanse of humanity who inhabit what has, in such a short time, joined the the rank of world class cities.
Superstitions, where do they come from? This weekend I picked up a friend’s bag from the table and went to put it on the floor when she shrieked. Apparently if you put a bag on the ground you become poor. Similarly, when I lived in the UK, every time I walked out with my flat mate she spent the majority of the time looking at the pavement because she didn’t like stepping on cracks or drains. Imagine if she lived in Abu Dhabi!
Whilst I’ve always tried to be tolerant of others beliefs I’ve never really had much time for superstitions of my own. I believe in treating others as you want to be treated and that hard work pays off.
However there is a part of me drawn to the mystical art of astrology and clairvoyance. I am interested in people’s star signs and have personally noted many correlations. Also, I have always wanted to see a fortune teller. Recently I fulfilled this desire.
Sitting in the lobby of a hotel was an Indian man smiling serenely. He was offering a palm reading service. He certainly looked the part, he was dressed in red silk with a red and gold hat, a white scarf and small reading glasses.
For weeks now I have been fixated on a soap opera that plays on MBC five nights a week. It's called Noor, and has been translated into Arabic (from what, for a long time, I could not figure out). At first it was the promos for Noor that drew me in, set to a song Moan, with its haunting refrain "I've been thinking too much about you/see the sunset with no sleep at all..." (This was a hit in Denmark from remix artist Trentemoller featuring Ane Trolle, by the way) I wondered: who are these sad, attractive people, gazing longingly and meaningfully into each other's eyes? How come Noor is always staring out that car window? Why is her hesitant blonde boyfriend always shedding a single tear? And what is with the turtlenecks?
On whatever authority, a site called the Blog Herald declares that there are now 70 million blogs in the world. For simplicity's sake, let us start with two big assumptions: the figure is right, and it includes 30 million individual bloggers (allowing for those who have two or more).
How many of them, like me, had not the faintest idea what a blog was as recently as 2004? That was the year in which I discovered that Alain Juppé, the former prime minister of France, had one. I was a quick learner, partly because the newspaper that employed me later introduced blogs written by various of its correspondents, and wanted those correspondents to include me, and partly because I was living among the French, who seemed to take more eagerly to the concept than most.
They say it is inevitable. They say it is the result of living in a furnace of a country where the heat fosters new levels of laziness. But whatever they say it’s official - I am ten kilos -(for the record that’s one and a half stones) - heavier than when I arrived.
They call it the curse of the Dubai stone - although nobody works in the imperial measurement system over here so I’m not sure why the name stuck. But I’m not in Dubai, I’m in Abu Dhabi and I don’t eat junk food nor gorge myself on chocolate. I thought, until the other day, that I was healthy, that I was free of the curse. However, as it turns out, I’m not.
On June 25, the Israeli soldier Gilad Shalit completed two years of captivity in Gaza. For some reason I started thinking about the 21-year-old corporal upon hearing news of the truce which took effect on June 19.
More than two years and three months have passed since I was last in Gaza, my hometown. Throughout that time I was free but Gilad was not. On the other hand, his family was free and my family was in virtual captivity.
I am not a five-star hotel kind of person. Not unless someone else is paying, of course. When it comes to travel, in my opinion, there are just so many better things to do with your money. Or that's what I thought, anyway. Until I lost my marbles and decided to go to Dubai and booked myself into the Kempinski Mall of the Emirates last night.
Like most things I do on a whim, it made little sense at the time and even less now. But I sure enjoyed it.
There seems to a general bias against bachelorettes in this city, especially when it comes to housing.
The idea that a one-bedroom apartment will actually be inhabited by a single girl is likely more frowned upon than a mere inquiry about its existence.
For Abu Dhabi is a city of two and three-bedroom apartments, and lavish villas (or hotel apartments). And to demand anything less not only means to pay more, but face prejudices about being single.
Or so I found when accompanying my friend on one of the most frustrating apartment-searches in this city.
I had looked forward to many aspects of my first trip home after landing in Abu Dhabi; perhaps a cool June rain, a caesar (a distinctly Canadian concoction involving clam juice, tabasco and worchestershire sauce and celery salt) and the smell of a freshly-mowed lawn. Definitely a swim in a cool Quebec lake, and a good old-fashioned outdoor barbecue.
As I wandered happily through Toronto's Pearson Airport - a hot cup of Tim Horton's coffee already in hand (another tasty and longed for symbol of home) - the first thing I enjoyed was the quiet. One does not know hustle and bustle, I have concluded, until one moves much farther east. But I had not factored in just how much I was looking forward to getting away from that massive throat-clearing sound that is so second nature to many of the expats living here.
India, the land of mystery, has always attracted me. When I was younger I was fascinated by tales of men called yogis who could raise themselves off the ground and walk barefoot over coals. As a fashion conscious teenager I always wanted brightly coloured clothes with tassels and bells and to drape myself with big gaudy jewellery.
Last year I read a novel which drew me into the world of the people from the slums and this year, with the wealth of Bollywood movies in the Gulf, I became convinced I had to go.
But standing on the train station in Agra I had to really remind myself of that. I had imagined a scene from The Darjeeling Limited and was met with something more like Animal Farm meets Piccadilly Circus.
